


Hands

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:05:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

Elsie winds her way through the servant's hall, trying to find where she's left her book. It had been there at her place, where she always leaves it, but now her place is cleared, empty, and she shuffles through newspapers and other debris of living on the sideboards. She's impatient, and tired, and just wants to go to bed with her book. Where in the devil has it —

She turns to Mr. Molesley sitting there at the table, as he is always is, and huffs an irritable sigh. He has her novel and is paging through it curiously, skimming the pages.

"Mr. Molesley, I've been looking for that."

He nods slowly, turns another page, then blinks and looks up at her. Blinks again at her outstretched hand. Grins a foolish grin and sways a bit in his chair.

_Oh, for heaven's sake. He's drunk._

Elsie rolls her eyes to the heavens. This is the last thing she feels like dealing with tonight, but it won't do at all to let Mr. Carson see him in this state. He had just about brought the roof down around them the last time one of the lads had been worse for drink. And Molesley is no young footman; he's valet to the heir of Downton.

"Mr. Molesley, you should go up yourself. It's getting quite late." She steps forward, gestures again for her book and he looks at her hand and grins again.

"Mrs. Hughes, you're a very kind person."

She bites back impatience. "I hope so, now let me have my book and you'll go to your room." Her fingers bend, beckon. Elsie is trying to keep the testiness out of her voice, but she doesn't have a lot of patience with drunkenness, nor does she have it in her to coddle and wheedle the way they so often require.

He looks at her hand again and instead of placing her book in it, he takes it in his own, raises it to his lips. "Mrs. Hughes, you are the kindest person I know. And such a fine-looking lady, might I add?"

_Oh, for sweet God's sake._

She tries to wrest her hand away, whispers to him furiously, tries not to alert Carson who is working in his office. "Mr. Molesley, for heaven's sake, you're being improper. Stop it this instant." He's kissing her hand sloppily now and she makes a grimace of disgust, jerks again as hard as she can but his grip is stupidly strong with that unconscious strength that drunks seem to have. This is stupid, this is  _funny_  really, but all the same she feels an iota of panic tickling the back of her mind, her throat.

Elsie has had one too many drunken hands put on her before, had one too many nights of trying to cajole a drunk into some common sense. She makes a fist with her captured hand and pushes instead of pulls — didn't Glenna teach her that all those years ago, push, don't pull — and her hand is free and her breathing is just a touch hard, just a bit rushed, and she closes her eyes as she hears his door slam and now he's here, having seen that. She didn't need him to save her, not from a weak idiot like Molesley — and besides, he wouldn't have done anything, he's a nice man in his right mind, he's just ridiculous right now — but all the same, when doesn't Carson's presence comfort her?

She winces as his voice raises, focuses on what he's saying.

"Tell me I did not just see you making some kind of — advance — on our housekeeper, Mr. Molesley. Because from what I saw, she seemed to be fighting you off and I daresay from the smell of you that you, sir, are drunk." His voice is fairly booming now and she cringes again; he can be so loud without really even trying. She doesn't even know how it's possible, she doesn't know how he holds that much _sound_ inside him. It's a voice of giants, of gods, of viking warriors in Valhalla. He's picking Molesley up by the arm now, snatches the book from his hand — looks at it and immediately hands it to her, she doesn't stop to consider that he knows what she's reading, she files that away for later — and begins steering him toward the staircase.

"Go to your quarters immediately; I'm going to speak with Mrs. Hughes and we are going to hope that she doesn't tell me anything worse than what I just saw." Carson gives him a rough shove, ignores the rabbiting apologies, and turns away with a look of scorn. Straightens his livery. She can see that his own chest is rising just a bit hard, he's just a little exerted.

"It's all right, Mr. Carson. He's just drunk and out of his head." Elsie laughs a little, shakes her head. "He won't remember a bit of it come morning."

Carson doesn't laugh, doesn't even smile or shake his head. "Are you all right?" His eyes are searching her face and they are dark, angry, just shining with anger, and she stands, a little alarmed.

"I'm just fine, nothing at all untoward happened. He's just silly and needs to stay away from the public house for a few nights. Really, Mr. Carson — nothing happened." Elsie tries for another smile, raises her brows at him playfully. "You look like a big ferocious bear; calm down."

The tension doesn't leave his face and he carefully touches her, so carefully, presses his warm fingers and palm around the soft upper arm. "You're sure?" She smiles again, pats his hand, and he's gone, slamming back into his office.

Elsie rubs her skin gently, not the hand where that idiot had wiped his lips, but her shoulder, her slender bicep. Smiles at the ghost of his touch.


End file.
